The Vanishing Sculptor by Donita K. Paul Read Free Book Online Page A

Beccaroon’s bedroom and pounded on the door.
    “Aaawwk! Come in!”
    She wrenched the handle down and rushed into the room. “Papa was here. In my room. I spoke to him. He’s gone.”
    Beccaroon shook his head. “Dreaming.”
    “I was not!”
    The bird tilted his head, and moonlight glinted in his wide eyes. “Were the lights on?”
    “No.”
    “What were you thinking about before you went to bed?”
    Tipper remembered the portrait, Gladyme’s comment about having dreams, and her strong desire to ask her father questions. She didn’t answer Beccaroon.
    The bird nipped her arm.
    “Ouch!”
    “Did you remember to pinch yourself to see if you were awake?”
    Tipper rubbed her arm. “No, but I felt Papa’s arms around me. He hugged me.”
    “And you hugged him back?”
    “Yes, but—”
    Beccaroon cocked his head. “But?”
    Tipper’s chin sank to her chest. “My arms went through him, and he disappeared.”
    The bird remained silent.
    “He did say he’d try to come back tomorrow night.”
    Beccaroon stretched his wings and let them settle to his sides. “We’ll sit up together and wait for him.”
    “You believe me.”
    “I want to believe you.”
    “Was I dreaming?”
    “Maybe. Maybe not.”

7
In Disarray
     
    Beccaroon perched on the back of a chaise longue and surveyed the view from the nearby window. Moonlight bathed the veranda, muting the pinkish tinge so that the marble took on a bluish-gray color. He sighed over the sharp contrasts showing in the dark vegetation of the rain forest beyond. He’d much rather sleep in the canopy. At least Tipper had opened the window so the night fragrances danced in with the slight breeze.
    His girl gave an indelicate snort and shifted position where she lay on the chaise. She had intended to stay awake and await the arrival of her father.
    To occupy the time, Tipper had sung for him. She played a harpenstead, holding it across her lap and strumming chords or plucking the strings. Her soft, clear voice filled the lonely room with cheer. Beccaroon knew she had no idea how her music calmed those who heard her. Or if she sang a rousing tune, her audience responded with vigor. With proper training, her talent would outshine the greatest singers on any metropolitan stage.
    Her tunes became mellower. Her voice deepened with emotion. At last, she put her instrument down and chose conversation. After three hours of small talk and yawning, she’d finally succumbed to natural fatigue.
    The moonlight touched her as well. Her pale blue dress fairly glowed with the lavish luminosity from the sky. Her fair skin and hair glistened as if kissed by a shimmer of starlight.
    Beccaroon sighed. Tipper’s gift of voice and musical ability astounded him. The best warblers in his forest did not surpass her. He doubted she comprehended the extent of her talent. She should have been given the opportunity to excel, not left under the guidance of an old bird in a tropical jungle.
    Circumstances could not be changed. Bringing up the sweet child without the aid of a fully witted parent in residence had been a trial, but Verrin Schope had charged the big bird to stand in his stead should something happen to him. Three days later, the artist had disappeared.
    The parrot clicked his black tongue against his beak, then preened, cleaning his chest feathers. He stopped midmotion and tilted his head toward the door. Voices in the hall approached Tipper’s bedroom.
    Beccaroon stretched his wings. The two minor dragons in the room roused from their slumber. Junkit shook his head as if to force himself awake. Zabeth came to her feet and arched her back like a cat before settling and staring at the door.
    The handle rattled and clicked as the latch released. Three indistinct figures walked through and paused in the semidarkness. The two dragons hissed. Junkit batted his wings, threatening attack.
    “You said she was expecting us?” A rumbling voice came from the shortest and roundest of the